Crust
by seabroth
Summary: 1930's-America-esque AU... with slang.


**Disclaimer**: I don't own Samurai Flamenco.

x

"Well," he says, sighing into his cigarette, and Masayoshi glimpses a flash of the ink-stains that mar the side of his palm before he shakes the matchstick to extinguishment. "then there's nothing I can really take you in for."

And he smiles, then. Silent. Just a twitch of the mouth, and the slightest sweeping of the eyes down his now-clothed frame. Tie crinkled and matte, in the light of the opposing apartment complex. Goto breathes in, one hand returning to the left pocket of his day-suit, breaking their gaze to watch the window-shade of a woman across the way.

Masayoshi's vision flutters shut on instinct when the smoke reaches him in the breeze.

x

"So you're a model, kid?"

He nods into his drink, a blend of chicory and cream and old, roasted beans he had been saving for the one time he'd ever have someone to treat them to. His grandfather's favourite. The candlelights they've tended flicker and waver and colour everything in illusionary warmth, and they're seated on the quiet, newly-upholstered daybed in the vigilante's lounge. Radio murmuring in the background. The policeman is barefoot because his socks were wet from the rain, and legs crossed, the cuff of his trousers on the right side has risen just high enough for Masayoshi's eyes to wander.

"Mostly for artists, anyhow." He says, supping again. Adjusting his hold on the china. The man next to him leans forward, flips another page of the portfolio with an almost delicate hand, smiles at something. Quickly covers it up.

"The boss said it's easiest to make myself known there, it's later that I'll be stiff under the Mazdas." he continues, sounding bored.

"But this flat…?" Goto asks, re-crossing his legs. Masayoshi follows the movement, waiting to swallow, feeling the strange urge to turn away. He doesn't, and Goto clears his throat before continuing. "What kind of racket are you really in?"

A laugh tumbles forth; they've met not three hours ago. "It's paid for by some higher-ups, that's all. They think I might go big."

Goto seems to understand too much, nudging the collection away. Suddenly pressing towards him, striving - the clatter of porcelain as the bookbinding hits against it is regretfully strong — and he's twisting to look directly into his eyes. Concerned. Something in his expression glimmers of resolve.

Their hands brush against each other, accidentally.

"And who are these higher-ups?"

x

When Goto is grasping at the curl of his shoulders, breathing annoyances into his hair, pushing and tugging towards the end of the street so his comrade can't quite hear…

"What'd you come _here_ for? How'd you even _find_ me?" He's hissing, the paper bag crinkling against his knee as they edge another haltering, awkward step forward. The wallet hidden in Goto's trouser pocket is pressing into him; so is the holster of a gun.

"I asked every cage in the area for you," he says, not embarrassed in the least, and Goto's fingers tighten ever so slightly. He questions on a date for tomorrow, which is accepted without hesitation — him grabbing the bag a moment later, and knocking Masayoshi gently with the flat of his hand in order to push him away.

"Anyhow, don't make it a habit. You're home in the evenings, ain'tcha?" The slight flush as he glances towards his partner, who is waiting by the entrance of the police station, suits him.

x

Later, in the entryway of an apartment far too big for two, Goto satisfies himself flitting over a bruise here, a swelling there, scratches and chafings too numerous to count. The two of them are still breathless from their escape. Masayoshi stumbles when reaching for the shoehorn, tries to worm off a glove with trembling, slim hands and the snick of his teeth.

"You think they recognized me?" he asks, as Goto tugs him into the washroom — with running water, and lighting fixtures, and a first-aid kit spanning two shelves — and touches over each colouring, aching spot of skin with the coarse, hesitant pads of his fingers.

"Not a chance." comes the reply, after he's certain there's nothing too grave. Blood-flecked, wet with snow, the layers of his own clothes are completely intact; but then, he's a better fighter. Weariness bubbles up from nowhere. He slumps against the side of the bath tub as if he makes to rest his eyes, and a mumble comes forth.

_Don't try that again._

But it isn't loud enough to gather a response.

x

The beginning of their more unnatural meetings is when, just after the rush of a battle, they fumble into a basement cinema as a means to take a rest. One hour, or two — enough time for Masayoshi to be able to walk on his own again, perhaps for the morning light to rise. The film is grey tones and blurry skin, soft caresses, blissfully silent except the orchestra playing in the background. He hears something muffled from a few rows behind them, and the slight noise of Masayoshi's weight shifting against the chair as he turns to whisper his surprise.

"One oughtta hush up in such a joint," He warns, but the man — or boy, rather, with flushed cheeks and quick, furtive glances — keeps on, detailing hopes and dreams and plans, comparing the police force to his own ideals. Goto won't look at the screen, won't think about the telegram stowed away in his outer coat, but turns towards Hazama even so.

He undoes his buttons, just enough to slip his palm into the opening; the edge of his leg somehow nudges against Masayoshi's fingers, which are curled over the arm-rest. He has the sense enough to grow quiet, then. They lean closer.

x

"But the suspect's already — " Masayoshi clamours, reaching into his pocket for his newly-purchased scout knife, while Goto edges closer to the corner of the building. He holds up a hand for silence.

"Look here, we don't even know about that mug for sure. _I'm_ the cop, remember?" And suddenly, with a tired heave of breath, throwing his cigarette to the ground, he pushes them both closer to the wall and slips his hand to meet Hazama's — inside the breast pocket of his makeshift uniform — grasping their fingers together.

"This is too big for a crumb like you." He continues, eyes narrowed in an attempt at hardness. Their faces nearly touching, the case of the knife twisted out of his loose grip, Hazama's breath quickens at the sudden shock. Goto wonders if he should frisk him, starts to ask if there's anything else, when he hears what could only be _the shatter of glass from a motorbike hitting the row of milk crates at the junction behind them —_

Turning to look, the two of them see Maya flipping down the kickstand, pausing to stamp her renovated cane against the ground. She's made her bust more revealing as well, since their last encounter — the small triangle of bare skin has turned into a heart-shaped cut-out the size of a fist.

"I knew it." She announces, grimly, and Goto's florid cheeks are noticeable even to the man he's leaning against, "You're sweet on Samumenco."

xxxx

Blame Joltkun on the Samurai Flamenco LiveJournal community for this. Mazda is a type of lightbulb they used to use to light up billboard advertisements, but anyway, what I meant was "right now Masayoshi is a nude model and later on he'll be an actor or something".


End file.
